


leave this house unhaunted

by saymynamedarling



Series: hands brushed, briefly [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Asexual Character, Communication Failure, Cuddling, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, dont worry tho they're getting there, i think, social ineptness, what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22515385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saymynamedarling/pseuds/saymynamedarling
Summary: Jon learns to navigates the feelings, to some degree of success.“The laughter is short-lived (and Jon just realises that Martin has laughed, oh, oh), but it leaves a lovely glow on Martin’s face and a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes are fond and for a small moment, they just look at each other.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: hands brushed, briefly [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619314
Comments: 9
Kudos: 185





	leave this house unhaunted

**Author's Note:**

> Jon and Martin navigate the aftermath. Set after between MAG 159 and MAG 160.

The first few days are awkward. After the adrenaline-fueled escape from the Institute, the ride to Scotland in Daisy’s beat-up getaway car was not very glamorous, or exciting. They listen to music a lot, in the car, and Jon is too distracted by the sheer terror of driving a car for the first time in his life to be a good company. Not that Martin needed company since he spent most of the trip asleep.

Jon tries. As they reach the safehouse, Jon is relaxed enough to try small talk. The weather, the fields, the very good cows _(He doesn’t talk about what happened, what they are running away from. How does one bring up such a topic up? Jon feels like the time to address it has passed, and he is terrified of bringing it up and upsetting Martin)_. Martin’s replies are equally banal. They subsist on these bland interactions until they reach their destination. 

He doesn’t hold it against Martin. He of all people knows the painful anxiety of trying to dance to the steps of normal social interactions. They aren’t good at it now, though Jon never was. Previously, he used to dismiss it, masking his discomfort with irritation and academic stuffiness but now he tries his best to reach out, awkward and painfully out of practice. Something hurts deep within Jon’s chest when Martin, to whom such things used to come naturally, struggles to respond. 

He offers quick, strained smiles at first, before busying himself with something or the other. Dusting the mantle. Checking the kitchen cabinets for food. Going through some knitting patterns he found in said kitchen cabinets. It seemed that he took every opportunity to avoid Jon’s gaze, Jon’s stammered questions, Jon’s beseeching invitations for tea. In the end, he excuses himself to bed, carrying his small backpack of supplies. Jon is left standing in the small living space slash dining room, wrenching his hands. 

He is suddenly tired down to his bones. His head hurts. His lower back is throbbing from the uncomfortable car seat he was in for the entire journey here. So he follows Martin into the bedroom, his own travel kit tucked under his arm and crashes into Martin.

The heavy backpack slips from his hands, the very full bottle of shower gel he’d packed landing with the weight of a dozen boulders on his toes. Martin visibly flinches away, and through the haze of pain, Jon feels a hurt that is deeper take root. He ignores it and retrieves his dropped supplies. 

“Alright, Martin?” Jon asks softly, to the man that hasn’t moved (apart from the flinch), that hasn’t turned around.

Martin’s shoulders move in what might have been an aborted shrug and shuffle out of the way. 

“I forgot - I was about to go to bed,” Martin says, gesturing inside the room, “but I thought you might like to discuss it first.”

“Discuss? Wha -” Jon blinks. “Oh.”

The bed.

There is only one bed. 

“Oh,” Jon says.

“Oh,” Martin agrees. 

When Jon turns to look at him, Martin is already looking back. There is a faint redness to his cheeks and it makes Jon’s heart lurch in his chest like it’s trying to escape, his pulse beat in his neck. It is suddenly very warm, between them. 

“I’ll take the couch,” Martin says.

Jon shakes his head and Martin makes a frustrated sound. 

“Jon _no_ , you look awful and I’m not making you sleep on the couch -”

“You’re not _making_ me, I want to, I’m used to it, the archives- “

“It’s okay, I’m fine with the couch, I don’t mind really -”

“No, no, I _insist_ -”

“You - you _insist_? I -”  
“Martin, you - you look like you need rest and - what?” Jon demands indignantly, as Martin starts to snicker. “What’s so funny?”

The laughter is short-lived (and Jon just realises that Martin has _laughed_ , oh, _oh_ ), but it leaves a lovely glow on Martin’s face and a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes are fond and for a small moment, they just look at each other. 

There is something like happiness bubbling inside Jon. It starts in a slow simmer under his too-few ribs and rushes out of his throat before he can stop it. 

“We can both bed!” 

Oh. Oh, _hell_. He wants to hurl himself back into the coffin. 

Martin looks surprised. Then amused. And then surprised again, as the implications of what Jon has offered hits him. Then he just looks shocked.

“Oh,” he says, “you want that? I mean, you want to -”

“Yes, yes, of course, I want to,” Jon cuts him off, mortified. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Martin says, dazedly. “Well, then okay - yes. Yes.”

“Okay,” Jon replies. He feels too hot, and he suddenly can’t seem to meet Martin’s eyes. “I’ll - I’ll wash up first, then,” and dashes to the small attached bathroom and then stops and turns back to Martin who is still staring at the same spot he had just vacated. “Unless, you want to, first?”

“No, no, you go first,” Martin says hurriedly, jerking into action. He is concentrating very hard on picking up their supplies from the floor.

Jon nods, even though Martin can’t see him and beats a hasty retreat into the tiny bathroom.

He spends a good minute panicking and jumps when there’s a knock on the door. His knee bangs on the bathtub ( _the place is so very tiny_ ) and a yelp escapes from him. 

“Sorry!” Martin’s muffled voice says from the other side of the door, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” his own reply is strangled. He sits on the edge of the tub and examines his knee. It looks fine but hurts something awful. “Did you need something?” he asks. In response, here is the tell-tale sound of shuffling and something solid hitting the door. A few seconds later Martin clears his throat.

“Yeah, thought you might want your stuff?” He says, “I’ve hung your backpack on the doorknob.”

Jon closes his eyes. In his haste to retreat, he’d left his backpack in the room. The one with his toiletries.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says. God, he must think Jon’s an idiot.

“No problem,” comes the reply. “I’ll just. Go get some tea.”

Jon waits a minute and opens the door. Sure enough, his backpack is there, hanging on the doorknob. The bedroom is empty, though. It seems like Martin had retreated outside to afford him some privacy. 

It takes him longer than usual to get ready for bed. His teeth get brushed very carefully because he’s always been diligent with hygiene, you see. He’s too tired to take a bath, but Jon wets his small towel and rubs himself down with the damned shower gel. His hair, he observes with some despair in the mirror, is a lost cause, so he just gathers it up into a high bun. Some of the shorter, choppy strands escape and fall down on his face, greasy and limp. He changes into a soft cotton shirt he stole from Georgie, when he was staying in her flat and his favourite flannel bottoms. 

When he goes back into the bedroom, Martin is sitting at the end of the bed, texting on his phone. He looks up when he sees Jon, smiling faintly, but more easily, than before. Jon feels himself return the smile automatically. 

“I’m done,” he says, shaking his backpack slightly. He immediately feels a little foolish doing so.

“Okay,” Martin says, smile still in place. He gets up and grabs a small toiletry bag that was sitting on the bed next to him. 

Jon is left standing in the empty bedroom, slightly chilly and stringently not thinking about the single bed. For a while, he dithers, stuffing his things into one of the small bedside tables. The fact that this would mark this side of the bed as his ‘side’ is firmly pushed out of his mind. He shuffles his things around for a minute more and then wanders out to the kitchen to make some tea. Jon gets as far as boiling the water before he decides that tea before bed is not a good idea. He opens the fridge, remembers that they have no food except a few crushed muesli bars and closes the fridge.

For a moment, Jon stands in the kitchen, shivering, before he admits to himself that he’s delaying the inevitable. There is nothing else to do, so he goes back into the bedroom.

The room is dim, lit only by an ugly floral lamp standing beside the door. Martin is already in bed, huddled underneath the blankets with his back to Jon. He reaches out and turns off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, because he can't bear to see the soft, intimate rise of Martin’s shoulders as he lies there, vulnerable. He navigates in the soft, velvet darkness to ( _his side of the_ ) bed, and slips underneath the sheets. It is easy. Jon doesn’t know why he thought it would be difficult. The space underneath the blankets has already absorbed Martin’s warmth. Jon lays on his back, eyes wide open and unseeing. He is hyper-aware of the scant few inches between his arm and Martin’s back. He aches. He can hear the soft sounds of Martin’s breath. He aches. 

“Martin,” and it’s a surprise and it’s not when the whisper escapes him. It leaves a pleasant buzz behind his teeth, his canines. Jon hopes Martin doesn’t wake up.

The man in question, however, was not asleep, because as soon as Jon says his name, Martin stiffens. 

“Yes, Jon?” Martin replies. He is also whispering, though they must be the only people for kilometers around here. There is something here, though, that demands hushed voices and velvet darkness. Something that demands unflinching trust and naked honesty. But Jon doesn’t know how to ask for it, he’s never been good at asking for things like this so he turns to Martin and rests a hesitant, questioning hand on his back. 

Martin is quiet for a long time. Still. His warmth underneath Jon’s hand feels like a brand. 

Then he reaches back awkwardly, catching Jon’s hand in his and tugging it over his waist. Jon moves, disbelieving and elated, dizzy with the affection overtaking his entire body. He molds himself to Martin’s back and sinks into the embrace, resting his forehead against the base of his neck. He smells like a few days of traveling that hasn’t been fully scrubbed off yet, cheap deodorant, but Jon doesn’t mind so long as he can have this. 

“We can both bed,” Martin murmurs, and Jon hushes him, smothering his smile into his shirt.

Yes, he wouldn’t mind a lot of things, he thinks sleepily as he drifts off, if he could have this every night.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a simple writing warm-up for my larger project but it got away from me. I wanted to capture how I avoid conflict/serious conversations and ended up splitting my behaviors between Martin and Jon.  
> Why did they fit them so perfectly :')  
> Hope you guys enjoyed!!


End file.
